The Writing of "Locusts and Wild Honey," Part IV -- Three Crosses

When we last left this story, three of my close advisers--a Medium and a Minister, plus my closest adviser, Mrs. Giles--all were telling me that I should not proceed with my original concept for the book which involved a personification of Satan and an exploration of Evil.  After much consideration and several dozen napkins scribbled upon, I changed the idea to a story about a man who, in his mind, inadvertently made a deal with the Devil.

Nevertheless, with all the caution given to me by these three trusted people, I decided that when I wrote, I would have crosses around to ward off any attacks by Evil.  Where to get crosses?  I stopped in the local Hallmark Shop for a Birthday Card and gravitated to an area of the store that had Angels and Crosses and other confirmation types of gifts.  I walked out with three crosses.  The small wooden cross went in the carrying case for my flash drives since that is the primary storage unit for my books.  A white stone with a something of a Cathedral Cross on it stayed on or near my laptop--my primary writing tool--as I would type on it.  Finally, I would pin the Celtic Cross Tie-Tack to my shirt pocket.

This was my practice for the first chapter--"The New Playroom," where the main character and the supposed agent of the Devil meet; also, in the fifth chapter which has two ghosts among the characters; again,in the fifth chapter, from whence the title of the book is derived; and finally, the last chapter, which takes place mainly in a cemetery where crows are flying in formations of three.  

In the various places that I wrote--mostly restaurants with an inexpensive breakfast in the morning and then on to the local library in the afternoon--no one asked about what I was doing or why I had the crosses; that was fine with me.

When I stopped writing for the day, all crosses went into my computer carrying case, except the white one, which went to my desktop while I transferred the day's work to my hard drive.  Even though the manuscript is finished, the three crosses as still in my computer case because that is where I keep the flash drive, where the original writing was done.

Shorty's Barbershop -- an Excerpt from "On Harrisonville Avenue"

I interrupt my telling of the story behind the writing of Locusts and Wild Honey to present an excerpt from On Harrisonville Avenue which is a memoir published in 2008.  I wrote it in the brash style of a thirteen year old boy, circa 1955.  It was based on my recollection of things -- surely dimmed by the passage of time and flawed by not having taken notes at the time.  This is one scene from the chapter titled "Shorty's Barbershop," an institution in New Boston at the time where news of the day, politics, sports and
good-natured kidding were all fare game for those waiting for a haircut.  Here is a description of Shorty at his best while shaving the Funeral Director's generous face:

Shorty was a neat man, with a white shirt on, a burgundy bow tie (hand tied) and brown slacks with brown, kind of beat-up comfortable shoes.  His cuffs were rolled up and he had garters around the sleeves at his biceps to hold the sleeves in place.  And, yes, he was short, about 5 foot 5, my height.

 

On the floor around his white porcelain chair was a rubber mat to cushion Shorty’s steps as he shuffled around his customer.   Although Shorty had the latest electric razors and shears, most of the time he had a comb and a pair of scissors in his hands.  Snip, Snip, Snip. Comb. Snip, Snip, Snip. Comb.

Shorty’s hair was thinning on top.  He had the kind of hair that was combed back, on the top and the sides.  It was shiny looking hair, held in place by liberal doses of creamy Brylcreem.  Everybody had shiny, wet looking hair using Wildroot or Brilliantine or Vitalis, most of it in the traditional styles.  The younger men and boys, though, were experimenting with different styles, mostly to look like the movie stars Marlon Brando or James Dean, and then there were the musicians like Gene Krupa the Drummer or the new guy from Memphis, Elvis Presley.   They had interesting hair also that young men imitated.

During the past year, I had converted from the Flat Top (I hated the Flat Top “Butch Wax") to longer hair combed up on top and swept back into duck-tails on the sides with a straight line in my hair in the middle of the back of my head.  I didn't like the shiny look, so I had to “train” my hair to lay that way.  “Training” required constant combing, so I always had a comb with me.

Mr. Burns the Funeral Director was in Shorty’s chair.  I had hoped that his was going to be a simple haircut, but no – Shorty laid the chair down so Mr. Burns was stretched out flat, parallel to the floor; Mr. Burns was going to get a shave, as well.

Out came the hot towel over Mr. Burns face while Shorty sharpened his barber’s straight razor on the leather strop attached to the chair.  When the razor was just right, Shorty went to the shelf above the wash basin and got his shaving mug that said “Clubman” on the side and his fine shaving brush.  There was clinking as the brush swirled around in the mug producing a foamy lather.  The hot towel was removed and the lather was applied.  Shorty had done this so many times that the moves were smooth and polished, with a little flourish here and there.

Scraa-aape, Scrape, Scrape.  The sharp razor held at the right angle removed even the heaviest beard, below the surface.  The lather that piled up on the razor was offloaded on Shorty’s bare arm at the wrist and above. Scraa-aape, Scrape, Scrape.  Then the neck.  It made me uncomfortable to watch Shorty shave the neck.  Mr. Burns had several folds in his neck just to make it more challenging, but Shorty had been down this road many times before as he smoothed the rolls out and got every whisker without nicking one mole or missing one crease.

The chair came upright and Mr. Burns’ face was toweled off and dried, then the back of his neck was lathered and shaved, toweled and dried.  Shorty shook some Clubman Talcum on his hands and rubbed it across Mr. Burns’ neck, washed and dried his hands and then went to a green bottle “Pinaud’s Lilac Vegetal”, sprinkling some of the liquid in his hands, Shorty patted Mr. Burns generous cheeks and neck with the aftershave.  Then combed his hair one more time and removed the protective apron.  Voila !  The smell of talcum powder and Lilac wafted faintly though the shop as Mr. Burns retrieved his suit jacket and his Fedora from the pegs. 

“Put it on my bill, please, Shorty.  See you, fellas,” said the quaffed and shaved Funeral Director, as he bid farewell.

“Thanks Mr. Burns.  Come back again.” The bell rang – Ding -- as he exited the shop.

“He has a big funeral today,” said Shorty.  “Mrs. Hamilton. Come on up Bill.  You’re next,” Shorty said as he brushed off the chair and snapped a new fresh apron open for Bill.  Crack.

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Pictures from the book On Harrisonville Avenue:  Ron's House, Ron with his rooster and friend Jerry and Shorty's Barbershop across the street.

Writing "Locusts and Wild Honey" Part III

I have never met Shannon Hall Walker face-to-face but we have had an active phone relationship for fourteen years. (We also share the same birthday, albeit in different years.)  I first spoke with her in 1999 when Joan and I were traveling to Vancouver, British Columbia for the annual Hymn Society Conference; Shannon, along with Janice, own the travel agency that handles Hymn Society travel.  Her laugh, knowledge and easy manner connected with me and I have called Shannon ever since when we travel.  We have shared poetry, photographs, jokes--and she is one of my secret readers, giving me her opinion as I work my way through authoring a new book. We have not met face-to-face--but we know each other.
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Antahkarana:  Healing Symbol

Shannon is a spiritual person and someone with paranormal sensitivities, who, within the past three-plus years has been working with spirit to further develop her abilities.  Still operating her travel agency, she also conducts private sessions as a Medium, interacting with souls who have passed on.   Recently, after seventeen months of study, Shannon became a Master Teacher of Reiki; a Japanese life force energy healing practice.

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After my discussion with Reverend Osborne, I called Shannon to see what she thought about my writing a book with Satan in human form as the main character.  She was alarmed at what I told her and concerned for my safety.

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Shannon was concerned that in my inexperience with the ways of Lucifer, my research-orientated concentration might be construed by the Fallen Angel as giving in to the ways of evil and acceding to entry -- even quite possibly permitting possession without my knowledge.  Perhaps, unbeknownst to me, evil might find a portal through my story to infect others.  A three page handwritten letter from her Spirit Guide attested to the seriousness of my quest.
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Finally, I told my wife, Joan, that in my new book, I wanted to explore evil and use a human personification of the Devil.  I did not share with her Shannon's reaction, nor Ralph's. Although Joan is very rational about matters, her reaction to the central idea of my book was very quick -- visceral. "If you write that story, do not write any of it here and do not bring it into the house -- not on your laptop, a flash drive or a card. I don't want it in here where our children and grandchildren come." Hmmmm.

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With all this valuable advice from people that I respected and admired all saying pretty much the same thing -- "don't do this," I started to re-think the whole project.

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(To be continued.)

Writing "Locusts and Wild Honey" Part II

I began trying to organize what I thought would be the chapters for Locusts and Wild Honey.  Note that I had "The Prey" and "Hellhound" as separate chapters because, at the time, I thought the black dog would be the antagonist and therefore could take two chapters.

In thinking about the black dog as adversary, I realized that I was truly wanting a personification of Satan so why not in human form rather than animal? At that point, I began to understand the totality of what I did not know about old Lucifer.  I would have to research the topic.

The Internet is a wonderful tool but if you conduct a search on "Satan," it generates 56,590,000 responses. Realizing that I needed direction, I approached two ministers about Satan or the Devil or the Fallen Angel. The late Reverend Ralph Osborne asked me "why do you want to write a story with the Devil as the central character?"

Simon Bening (1483-1561)

Stunned by his question, I stammered a response. "For the reader's entertainment."

"Wrong reason," Ralph said with a laugh.  "This is far too serious a subject to approach as entertainment."

"What would be a good reason?" I asked, hoping to salvage something out of my scribbles and late-at-night thoughts.

"Education, comes to mind, but even then, you would have to be careful that you didn't create such a curiosity about the matter that you would convert people to the other side.  Change direction, dear Friend. Find another way."

Ralph's response was not satisfactory to me but I had to respect it.  Maybe there was another take on the matter.  I called my friend, Shannon Hall Walker, a Medium and a Reiki Master Teacher.

(To be continued.)

Writing "Locusts and Wild Honey"

In February, 2011, I began sketching out what would become Locusts and Wild Honey, I started with the Hellhound, a legendary character that supposedly was the messenger of Satan; whover saw the creature with fiery eyes would die soon.  I had forgotten about the hellhound since college, but was reminded of it during a sermon by Reverend David Pickett when he quoted the iconic and mysterious Blues Guitarist, Robert Johnson (1911 - 1938) whose song "Hellhound On My Trail" set a standard for Blues guitarists.  That Sunday afternoon, I wrote the first paragraph of my hellhound story:

Before sunrise, as I entered the darkness of the woods, I heard my father's voice admonishing…“Never hunt alone.”

Robert Johnson

I was delighted when author and former QVC associate, Jim Breslin, called to invite me to submit a short story for an anthology titled Chester County Fiction.  Without thinking, I dashed off the first paragraph above to him and then began working on it for the collection that Jim was putting together. Collaborating on Chester County Fiction in conjunction with other writers was a joy that happily consumed my writing energy for the remainder of 2011.  My short story was titled, "The Prey."



In January 2012, having written the hellhound story I went back to my notes, simple phrases that I had jotted down on napkins from various restaurants -- a ghost story in an old house haunted by teenage boy; recent divorcee seduces high school classmate, adding to the string of bad decisions this man has made; arm-wrestling with a stranger in a bar when the newcomer reveals he just got out of jail for armed robbery. And then there was "The Prey," which I had retained the copyright and made vague references that I might use it again in another book.

I had enjoyed writing in the short story form -- less than 10,000 words that compresses novel basics of exposition, problem, climax, resolution and denouement in a shorter frame. I  wondered if one could weave a series of short stories into a plot.

At another church service, I heard a reading from Matthew 3, verses 4-6, where John the Baptist is dispatched to the Wilderness:

John’s clothes were made of camel’s hair, and he had a leather belt around his waist. His food was locusts and wild honey. 5 People went out to him from Jerusalem and all Judea and the whole region of the Jordan. 6 Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River.

Eric Armusik (b. 1973)

Up to this point, my story ideas were all dark and threatening, but the phrase "his food was locusts and wild honey" gave me hope.  That is, even in a desolate wilderness, John was supplied food.

I recalled that Christ would find himself in a wilderness as well for forty days and nights and that it was on the thirty-ninth day, when Christ was at his weakest, Satan chose to tempt him.

Temptation, bad decisions, hellhound, Satan, Good and Evil.  A story of human frailty intersecting with unseen rival factions began to form in my mind.

(To be continued)